


Vices and Virtues

by Veritable_Wasteland



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veritable_Wasteland/pseuds/Veritable_Wasteland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Universe is too apathetic to be bothered with insignificant little things like Karma, The Social Moderators are more than willing to pick up the slack. A story about duality, redemption and assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Ballad of Mona Lisa

**Author's Note:**

> "That whole thing with Mona Lisa was the idea that there is this character. For us, you look at the painting, and you can't tell what this person is thinking. Not showing too much emotion, there's this Mona Lisa smile masking what's going on in that person's head," he explained. "The song is about a battle in yourself […] an inner struggle in oneself. The duality in nature, where you see yourself as a bad person, and the good person trying to correct your bad habits. That's what it was about. We thought that would be an easy way to describe how we were masking our own emotions and trying to figure out how we can solve the bad choices we make." -Brendon Urie on the making of The Ballad of Mona Lisa
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don't own the title, Kingdom Hearts and this plot is just a mishmash of me watching way too much Killer Girl K, City Hunter and my long un-indulged fantasy of Axel and Roxas as assassins.

  
_  
_Prologue - The Ballad of Mona Lisa

_October 2005_

"All right, Number Eight, focus. We're just going to do this like we did in training. But with no fuck-ups, got it?" a familiar voice reverberated through the young adult's ear piece as he lay on a darkened rooftop. His hands tensely wrapped around his weapon.

"Yeah, yeah. Unbunch your panties, I got this, Boss." He responded.

Number Eight fidgeted minutely beneath the dark blanket covering him. He checked his timer and the setup of his sniper before he scratching the band of the generic dark beanie his hair was tucked uncomfortably into. He hated the thing, but since he insisted on keeping his attention-attracting red hair in such a crazy style, he was forced to wear it. **  
**

According to his superiors, his sense of style and covert operations didn't go hand in hand.

He rested his face against the scope once more. He'd been scolded about his restlessness so much he could already feel the newspaper colliding with the crown of his head.

He checked the timer again. He had about a minute before the President of Ssang Corporation showed. A minute before his bullet melted. A minute before he went from a simple chronic fuck-up, to the real deal. He resisted the urge to tug at the beanie again.

"There he is! Line it up. You've got 45 seconds left!" The voice hissed in his ear.

Eight jumped slightly, and willed the tremors erupting through this fingers to cease. He peered through the scope and spotted his target. A portly, vertically challenged man, his hair more gray than brown and balding slightly in the center, stylishly square glasses perched upon his nose. He stood proudly in a crisp, designer suit. He looked nothing like a man who'd recently gotten off Scott-free for the murder of his wife. Nor did he look like a man who would allegedly be responsible for illegal  _in vitro_  fertilization operations and embezzling. That was Number Eight's opinion, anyway and as he'd been told frequently, his opinions was worth less than camel shit.

"Wait!"

Eight halted the same time the exclamation assaulted his ear drum. A young man, roughly a year younger than Eight, blocked his sight. The obscurer of his shot had a head-full of beach blond hair and a diminutive stature.

_Shit Snacks._ He mentally growled.

"Stand down, Eight."

The redhead looked over at the timer.

29 seconds. He quickly scooted over and realigned his shot.

"Fuck that _,_ _Boss."_ He responded before pulling the trigger just as the blond male moved away. The bullet pierced the man's temple, gliding through the skin like knife through butter. No exit wound. Perfect. Like he'd practiced.

Number Eight released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as a short, muted ding came from the timer. Perfect  _and_ just in time.

A cacophony of screams and gasps erupted from below as he quickly broke down his perch. He looked over at the crowd once more. He caught another glimpse of the blond. Azure eyes stared on wide and blank as he took halted steps backwards. Even from this distance the frantic heaving of his chest as he struggled for air was apparent. Blood painted his face in an intricate pattern.

Eight found himself stuck in his crouched position as he watched the young man turn around frantically searching for the source of the gunshot. He looked up directly at and through Eight, unable to actually see him in the overhanging shadows.

The assassin's heart dropped as he recognized the wild terror racking the young man's frame.  _Sorry, Kid._ He knew firsthand that watching the light in someone's eyes extinguish right in front of you could fuck a person up.

"Eight, get your ass out of there!" His superior scolded loudly snatching him from his musings.

"Ass is in motion, Boss." He answered shortly before grabbing his stuff and doing a quick double-check of his area. Still crouched low, he paused momentarily and cast a glance back into the chaos. He looked back over to where the blonde previously stood. He could hardly be made out, now swallowed up by the frenzied crowd as he ran in the opposite direction.

"Don't stop moving, or the darkness will overtake you." Eight muttered towards the ambling blonde, before turning on his heels and vanishing into the night.


	2. Foundations

_April 2013_

On the corner of Hazelnut and Davidson, sat a small cafe. It was tucked underneath overhanging foliage from nearby trees, vines licking the sides of the wall and intertwining with the large silvery letters that sprang out from the brick building.  _Three Layers_. Inside, the walls were painted a deep beige, the floors boasting dark walnut. A shelf of cakes and pastries sat next to the register. A chalkboard high up on the wall behind the register featured lengthy, colorful, scrawl describing various coffees and teas and their prices. The place was bustling with patrons. Bits and pieces of conversations both scandalous and mundane bounced around the room. Behind the counter however, stood a very unimpressed young man. His cheek rested against his fist, elbow propped up on the register. His weight shifted from foot to foot as if unable to decide which was more comfortable.

He'd been posted at the register for three hours too long. He was sick of having to plaster a smile on his face as people came up to ask questions that could easily be answered if they just checked the damn board. Sick of nearly burning his hand as he handled impossibly hot liquids. Sick of having to exchange pleasantries when he'd much rather be spending his morning in his bed. He kept his eyes intently on the clock. He just needed the hands of the clock to tick 2 more seconds. He just needed it to be 10:00.

As soon as the thought went through his mind, he heard the very distinct jingle of the little bell above the entrance. He looked over and immediately perked up as man, probably somewhere around mid-30s, approached the counter. The man was tall, nearly taller than the brown haired barista who easily surpassed 6'2.

"What do you recommend today?" The man asked pleasantly, looking past the young man at the menu board.

The barista slapped on a crooked grin. "Well, I hear the Caramel Macchiato is just to die for."

The man gave a convinced nod. "I'll take it."

The young man punched in a couple of buttons on the register. "$2.95, please."

After handling the monetary side of things, the brunet shuffled off and pulled on a pair of gloves. He took a quick glance over his shoulder and while the man was seemingly distracted by the displayed sweets, he pulled a small silver vial from his sleeve.

"You know," The man started, causing the young man to freeze slightly. "I haven't seen you working here before. Are you new?"

The young man chuckled, allowing his tensed shoulders to fall. "Oh, yes, sir." He went back to his work. "Started this morning. Name's Twain."

"I'm –"

"Mr. Davidson. I know. We actually met yesterday and my supervisor told me to keep an eye on you. Got to take care of our regulars, right?"

The man looked up briefly before clearing his throat. "Right. So, how are you liking it here?"

"Just fine, actually. Never a dull moment."

The young barista finished preparing the drink and placed it gently on the counter in front of the patron, startling the man out of his pastry induced daze..

"I think I might like a danish as well. $1.25, correct?" He asked eying the dessert counter as he rifled through his wallet.

"You know what, it's on the house." The Twain offered with a smile as he pulled the pastry from the counter. He placed it on a plate beside the machiato.

"Oh. Oh, no I couldn't let you –"

"Please." Twain cut him off. "Life is too short to waste a blessing, am I right? I'm just taking care of a regular." He gave the older gentleman a wink.

His customer gave a stunted smile. "If you're sure. And I'll be sure to tell your manager what an attentive worker you are."

The young man smiled back, giving a small nod as the man grabbed his things and took a seat in a far corner of the cafe. The smile on the barista's face morphed into something more akin to a smirk as he, while still wearing the gloves, grabbed a damp rag and wiped down the counter, the register, and whatever else he'd been in contact with before quietly slipping out of the back door. As he walked down the deserted alley behind the cafe he pulled out his phone and dialed a number, waiting for the small inhale of breath signaling the line had been picked up.

"Number Eight, reporting" He stated as he walked down the alley.

"Is it done?" A feminine voice asked.

"'Do you really even need to ask?" He scoffed. "Have I ever let you down before?"

"Do I really need to answer that question?" The woman shot back, the smirk on her face, audible.

Number Eight smiled as he turned the corner. The buildings slowly deteriorating the further he got.

"Gonna make the switch. Should be in place in 8.5" He responded.

"I'll be watching. Take no more than 15 to get into place. Nine will be waiting."

Ending the call with an affirmative grunt, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. He checked his surroundings as he made a right before stepping inside a dilapidated gas station. He navigated the fallen shelves and glass littering the floor, each piece holding a bit of sunlight that gleamed through the glass-less windows. Each little glitter like a piece of discarded hope amongst the wreckage. He made his way to the bathroom, where a black duffle bag lay.

He looked into the mirror unable to even remotely recognize himself.

"Damn. Fourteen is  _good_." He whistled. After marveling at the work a moment longer, he pulled the brunet wig from his head, followed by the wig cap that kept his fiery red hair in place, letting his natural locks fall around his shoulders.

He gave it a good shake, helping it unmold from his head. He leaned forward in the mirror and placing a finger on his top and bottom lid, squeezed the brown lenses from his eyes, one after the other, revealing jade green. He crouched down, pulled baby wipes from the duffle bag and scrubbed vigorously at his face. The make-up that altered his face, lip and jaw shape ever so slightly. He frowned at the stickiness left behind but with no running water, he'd have to suck it up. He shrugged out of the Cafe uniform before changing into a pair of dark denim jeans and black t-shirt. He dug a bottle of lighter fluid from the bag, drenched it and the clothes before pulling one of his many Zippo lighters from his pocket. He considered the silver object before sparking it and tossing the ignited lighter onto the soaked items before hastily leaving the building. He stood outside for a moment, watching the flames grow. Their seductive dance along the edge of the wall gave him goose-bumps.

They willed him to stay but unfortunately, he had a little matter to check up on. He promptly walked back the way he came, the sound of sirens growing as he, instead of taking the alley, walked around the Cafe. There was a frenzied crowd gathered around the outside of the building. Number Eight leisurely made his way over, melding with the crowd. He watched as a convulsing Mr. Davidson was wheeled into the back of an ambulance. The redhead leaned close to a young brunette, her hand was loosely clasped over her face at the sight.

"Hey, what's going on?"

The woman jumped and gave the man next to her a once-over. Number Eight didn't miss the split-second of interest flash across her mousey features.

"That man just collapsed in the Cafe. He was fine one minute and then all of a sudden he just fell out of his chair. He was all red. It was terrifying."

"Sounds terrifying." Number Eight nodded.

"Yeah, they also found one of those signs."

"Signs?"

"You know, the ones that have been popping up lately? The heart symbol."

"From the Social Moderators?" He asked.

The woman nodded. "I heard some people whispering, they say he's the guy that's been all over the news lately. You know, that child abuse case."

Number Eight let out a low whistle, as the paramedics began to speed off. He eyed the scene. "Well, I'm not sticking around if those nut jobs were here."

The woman opened her mouth as if to say something but the redhead turned and began walking in the opposite direction of the frenzy, towards a black car, parked on the curb.

"Bring me anything, Axel?" The dirty-blond, mullet-wearing man behind the wheel, asked as Number Eight dropped himself into the passenger's seat.

"Of course." He answered digging into his pocket, pulling out a saran-wrapped brownie. He tossed it into the driver's waiting hands.

"Sweet." He grinned, examining it before putting the car into drive. "So, everything go okay? Saw them rushing the guy off."

"Yeah," Axel answered as he clicked his seat-belt on. "He won't make it though. 1.5mg per kilogram. Easily went over that."

The blond shrugged as they stopped at a light. "Still say he got off easy. Anyone who treats disabled children like lab rats just... He deserves a fuck lot more than Cyanide Coffee."

Axel placed a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Demyx."

Demyx shook his head. "No, it's fine I just..."

"Yeah. Seeing pictures was bad enough. Can't imagine having to be the one taking them."

"Yeah." The other man replied tersely as they turned onto the highway.

Axel felt the sudden uneasiness waft into the atmosphere and settle around their shoulders. With a sympathetic sigh, he reached over and turned on the radio. He popped in his best friend's favorite CD and watched as his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel loosened, little by little.

There is an ongoing idea that the Universe will supply the Wicked with their due comeuppance. That no bad deed goes unpunished. These ideas are fed to us from the time we are old enough to swipe cookies from the cookie jar. Force-fed to us after we've been found out by our parents as we vehemently deny any wrongdoing. Because no matter how hard you try, there will always be crumbs. But Axel Flynn had come to realize long ago that this idea, that this myth, was nothing more than c _omplete and utter bullshit._  He'd found that sometimes, you could clean those crumbs up so well, any strays could easily be overlooked. He'd also found that sometimes, all it took was a simple wave of a checkbook and suddenly, even the most blatant and obvious trail, was invisible. This was an acerbic truth forced upon the redhead many years ago. What made him realize that some sins were worth bearing if it meant picking up the slack that the Universe was much too apathetic to be bothered with.

"Hey, Ax. Mind punching the code?"

Axel's head jerked towards the sudden break in silence. He looked towards the now rolled-down window. They were at the entrance to an old run-down parking garage. The wall with the security system, riddled with graffiti. The man gave a noncommittal noise before rolling down the window and punching the 10-digit code into the small box. The heavy doors slid open as a woman's voice greeted them.

"Welcome back, Demyx and Dorkenstein."

"She's so mature." Axel grumbled as Demyx pulled into the dark garage.

"Well, you did short sheet her bed last night."

"That was because she put Tabasco in my apple juice!"

"Oh, yeah. That was some funny shit." Axel scowled before flicking the dirty blond's ear. "Ow! You can't attack the driver!"

"I can when he's parking." Axel shot back as Demyx pulled the keys from the ignition with an irritable pout. "So when's he coming?" Axel asked after he managed to quell his urge to laugh at the other man's expression.

"About an hour. Gonna pick him up at the diner down the street, as planned."

Axel nodded and reached for the door when a grip on his shoulder stopped him, pulling him back into the seat.

"You sure about this, Ax? I mean, things have been fine with just the three of us. Wouldn't another body complicate things?"

Axel sighed before fixing his gaze on Demyx. The uneasy man leaning against the steering wheel, his brows nearly knitting together.

"Not this guy. I've been watching him even longer than you have. He'll be a good fit. It's just one guy." The uncertain look marring Demyx's features only deepened.

"All it takes is one guy to make one mistake and the Social Moderators are as done as The Organization."

The redhead visibly flinched at the words and the intestine-twisting sensations they drug up. Axel needed little to no reminding of the day his entire world went to hell in handbasket.

"That's not going to happen." He answered with a slight waver. He sucked in a long, quiet breath. " Besides, you're just freaking out because another guy means more work for you."

Demyx blinked before letting out a long whine. "Damn. I'll have to do recon for  _two_  people now."

Axel laughed as he pushed the car door open, leaving Demyx to his brief temper tantrum. "Quit whining and come on or I'm getting on the elevator without you, you little shit."

"Victories that are easy are cheap. Those only are worth having which come as the result of hard fighting." A woman with short dark hair, spoke as Demyx and Axel walked into a room filled with various computers and machinery. The walls were painted a champagne-pink, the floors covered by a cream colored carpet. The desk and shelves accented with gold. She looked up as they plopped themselves into the white armchairs positioned on the other side of the desk. "Henry Ward Beecher." She looked up at the two men with a smile before turning the computer monitor towards them On the screen was an article; the words "Breaking News" in large bold letters. "In other words, Cory Davidson, Head of Pinebrook Labs, the man who recently made a plea deal regarding his abuse and experimentation on the severely autistic twins he adopted, was pronounced dead at Memorial Hospital today. Suspected poisoning. The Social Moderators are thought the be involved."

"What are the people saying?" Axel asked.

The woman spun the monitor back to herself, the light of the screen dancing on her nose stud. "Let's see: 'Good riddance. A man like that has no place in this world.' Another: 'I'm glad someone's picking up the trash that the so-called Justice System leaves behind.' I would say the people are quite satisfied with our work."

"Nice." Demyx grinned, holding out both of his hands to his friends. "Come on, don't leave me hanging!" He complained. The other two, with matching eye rolls, slapped hands with the excited dirty-blond.

"Wait a minute. Why did you even come down here, you're supposed to be at the diner in like five minutes?" The woman asked, quirking a brow.

"No, I have to be at the diner in thirty minutes." Demyx corrected

"Yeah, but in the time it's going to take you to get through all of the security checkpoints to get out of here, plus your inevitable nineteen minute trip to the kitchen, you're only going to have five." She answered before turning her attention back to her computer.

"Xion has a point, Demyx."

Demyx scoffed and looked at the two of them, obviously trying to find a way out of having to leave his comfortable seat. "Fine. You guys suck, though." He lifted himself from the seat. "Be back in 40."

"Remember take him to the boardroom." Xion called.

"And make sure he doesn't see how to get here, or the codes. Gotta earn that shit." Axel added.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. And I'm taking the last piece of pie with me!"

As the sound of retreating footsteps dissipated, Axel stretched his long limbs before giving the room a once-over.

"Is it just me or did this place get girlier?"

"Zip it, Agent Orange. My office, my color scheme." Xion looked up from the screen momentarily before allowing her fingers to gracefully fly over the keyboard again. "That whole concrete wall thing wasn't working for me."

The redhead frowned. "Looks more like a beauty salon than an office." He ignored her exasperated glare and reached over and poked at some of the machinery. "What's this thing?"

"New external hard drive. I'm working on two new programs that'll let me bounce around phone signals and another that'll let me hack into some of the more complex databases without getting caught. Learned my lesson after last week's near-fuckery."

Axel gave an interested sound and placed the device back. He stretched once more, placed his hands on either armrest and leaned his head back against the chair, allowing his eyes to close.

"Someone's looking tired. Need a little Tabasco to pep you up?" Xion asked, looking up from her screen with an amused smile.

"Screw you, Fourteen."

The woman let out a giggle. "No, but seriously. You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Axel..." She responded in a warning tone. The clacking of the keyboard stopped.

"I'm fine, Xi. It's been a long day that's only about to get longer." Eyes still closed he ran his hand through his hair. The hours of sleep he'd wasted by staring at the ceiling the previous night, were catching up to him. His chest tightened slightly. The room was silent for a couple minutes before the sound of footsteps met his ears. A slight creak of springs caught his attention. He opened his eyes to find Xion, in the chair Demyx had recently vacated, staring him down, face laced with concern.

"You've been thinking about them again, haven't you?"

The redhead's fingers tensed on the arms of the chair. He looked away, his eyes tracing the logo on the back of the computer monitor. "Yeah."

"And you've been thinking that bringing another person into the group just makes another person that you will have to personally feel responsible for."

"Xi..." He started. His tone begging her to let it go.

"We've been doing fine since we started up and not to mention you've been watching this guy even longer than that. If he's half as good as the data suggests, we'll be even safer, even more careful than we've ever been. Am I right?"

Axel looked back over his friend, her bright blue eyes brimming with optimism. "Yeah, you're right."

"I know I am. Now," She climbed out of the chair and grabbed the tall male by the wrist, and yanked him from his seat. "You need to get up, go wash your face because apparently you didn't use the make-up remover I packed, that or you just suck at hygiene and get your too-tall butt over to the boardroom so we can be ready."

"Ugh. Fine." Axel grumbled as he made his way to the door.

"Oh, wait." Axel stopped mid-step and turned towards the small woman. "I just realized you only ever called him Thirteen. What's his real name?"

"It's Roxas."


	3. Alliances

_October 2012_

When Roxas opened his eyes, there was an explosion. A hybrid of fireworks and gunshots detonated within his head. He took in a sharp breath, squeezed blue eyes shut against the torturous light pouring in from the windows before letting out an anguished groan. In his twenty-five years of existence, he had never felt such a searing pain.

"Fucking tap-dancing shit on fuck." He hissed. He instinctively reached a hand to his head only to find it already occupied. He peeked one eye open at the object. Half a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 (or was it more than half?) that had previously been in the kitchen was now empty, his hand curled around the neck of the bottle. Before even getting a moment to really think about the implications of this, or to even think about a way to eliminate his headache, his traitorous body had yet another surprise for him in the form of an extremely powerful wave of nausea.

The blond man leaped from the bed and took off down the hall of his apartment towards his bathroom, where he was forced to stay for the next thirty minutes.

"Dear God, I promise if you make this stop, I'll stop drinking hard liquor. I'll stop tricking the vending machines with Monopoly money. Hell, I'll even reduce my F-bombs by like seventy-five percent." The young man prayed audibly for perhaps the thousandth time, after his second round of dry heaving. He collapsed on the floor, letting the cool tile soothe him as his stomach's revolt subsided.

It took a couple of minutes before he was able to muster the strength needed to get onto all fours and crawl to his kitchen for a bottle of water. He mentally noted that not only was the Wild Turkey gone, so was a decent amount of his bottle of Everclear. He flopped back down onto the floor and drained his bottle. Before being able to deduce how his recent alcohol consumption had not killed him, he saw them.

Boxes. Large, filled to the brim, cardboard boxes.

_"You're a liability, McCartney. I'm sorry but we're going to have to let you go."_

The words raced through his pounding head. The resounding echoes of the words filled his throat with an all too familiar lump. Roxas, still quite unable to make use of his legs, crawled the short distance to his living room where the boxes sat, his name plate on top, a single business card next to it. 'Roxas McCartney, Detective.' He laughed lightly at the typed lie.

"More like Roxas McCartney, Leader of the Fuck Up Brigade." He laughed bitterly, flinging the objects away from himself. A half-sob escaped his lips, the ball of his hand smacking against his forehead, doing nothing for his hangover. It was over. His entire career, because Internal Affairs was too busy sitting around with their thumbs up their asses to realize what he'd done was right. Prior incidents, temper problem, it was all bullshit. It was self-defense and they knew it. They just wanted him gone. He had been too close to the truth and not at all swayed by things like money or influence. Roxas shakily kicked the box away from him, in a weakened, fit of rage. He got up on his feet, still weak and wobbling, but ready to stalk back to his bedroom and sulk, when a manila envelope with his name written in black, messy script, caught his attention. He blinked at it intelligently for a minute before bending to pick it up.

_Roxas,_

_We've been watching you. Answer in 4 seconds._

Before the blond man could fully process the words, his phone rang. The device vibrating violently in his back pocket nearly caused the man to jump through the roof. He reached around and retrieved the object and proceeded to stare at the screen.  _Unknown Number_. Roxas blinked and turned around to the large window behind him. The curtains and blinds were somewhere between open and closed. He walked over to the window, phone still ringing. He pressed the green 'answer' button and placed the phone to his ear.

"H-hello?"

"Good morning, Roxas." a digitally distorted voice greeted him cheerfully. Roxas' jaw moved inaudibly. Half of him unable to respond, the other half realizing he lived on the second floor; his window over-looked a rather large retention pond. So how would anyone know if he'd opened – "How's the hangover treating you?" The voice broke into his musings.

"Who's this?" Roxas demanded. His tone fell short of the intimidating tone he was going for as the words came out with a slight crack. He couldn't tell if it was accompanying the goose-bumps suddenly lining his arm or the remnants of acid from his earlier bathroom rendezvous.

"Oh, just a friend. A friend that's been keeping an eye on you. Saw what went down yesterday. Really sucks for you, kid."

"I'm hanging up."

"You could. But just how long can you keep your head above water with measly unemployment checks? Especially with all of those medical bills your mom left, hmm?"

The blond man paused and squeezed the bridge of his nose in an attempt numb the intensifying headache. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"I told you," The voice answered patiently. "I'm a friend that's been keeping an eye on you." Roxas let out a haughty huff of air. "And I know wasted talent when I see it."

The blond man ran a hand through his mussed locks. He'd fully scanned the area the best he could. Whoever this person was, they weren't outside. But how did he know... Roxas spun around and began examining his living room.

"Oh, Roxy. I didn't bug your living room. Personal space and all that, you know?"

"Then –"

"I have my ways, get it memorized."

Roxas removed the phone from his ear, holding it at arm's length so he could examine it. This had to be some little neighborhood brat that had seen him trudging home yesterday. He could feel disgust pulling the corners of his lips downwards as he remembered how the entire complex muttered as he unloaded the boxes from his car. He'd even left one because of the staring. The way the harsh whispers scraped against the few threads of dignity left. But no one knew about his mother. He never told anyone. He had no one  _to tell_.

"Who are you?"

"Can't get quite that specific yet, Rox." The voice answered with a slight chuckle. Roxas felt his nostrils flare. Apparently someone was getting much more amusement out of this than he was. "Not until we're on equal ground."

"What the hell are you even –?" Roxas blinked hard. Why was he even still on the line? "Look, I don't have time for this."

"Really? Because it seemed to me like you have all the time in the world now."

The blond bared his teeth in a snarl. "When I figure out who the hell this is..."

The voice sighed. "So volatile. You're no fun. Look, I come from a small group that's interested in your talents. You're efficient. You're fast. You have knowledge that could greatly benefit us. You know exactly what needs to be done in this world. Twilight Town is far from the gem it used to be, wouldn't you agree?"

The blond man's jaw tensed. "That's why there are cops."

The voice let out a hollow, bitter, laugh that chilled the young man to the bone. "Cops? You worked with them. You've seen this legal system. In this town all you need is a decent bribe, some social standing and a good-ass lawyer and no one gives a fuck about what you did, how you did it, or who you hurt. No, Roxy, that's why there's us."

"Us? You're off your motherfucking rocker. Who is this? It's that little ass-flea, Seifer from downstairs isn't it? Saved all your lunch money so you could buy that voice changing toy so you could fuck with –"

"October 28th, 2005. Remember that date?" Roxas' brows knitted together briefly before blue eyes grew wide with realization. His lips dropped their scowl and his voice got lost somewhere between his throat and lips.

"Otherwise known as the day I saved your ass." The voice chirped proudly.

Knees weak, the blond dropped down onto the floor. "You – You shot him?"

"Before  _you_ got the chance to stab him, yes. It's amazing how a sniper scope can pick up the faint glint of a knife, huh? Well that and years of training." The cock-sure smirk was audible now. "By the way, with the way you were standing, at least 3 people would have seen you and he would've lived. Number one rule, kid. Dead men can't testify."

"Why would you...?" He trailed off.

"It's not like I was there specifically to stop you or anything. It was my job. You were just...a surprise occurrence. Got a lot of shit for taking that shot after I was told not to, you know. But there was something there. I even convinced my superiors at the time but then you went and joined the army, which was pretty fucking noble. But after that you joined the freakin'  _police academy._ Ick."

"So, what? You're blackmailing me?" Roxas cut in.

"Pfft, no. Just informing you of your debt. That and the fact that I'm not some random kid. The fact that I know about your mom, her depression and the life support. The fact that –"

"I get it! I get it! You know shit. Bra-motherfucking-vo." Roxas cut him off. He didn't want to hear his own life story from the mouth of some sick fuck. "If you're not blackmailing me then why are calling me? What do you want from me?"

"Your body."

Roxas got silent, an aghast frown setting in.

"Well if I knew that would quiet you down, I would have mentioned that minutes ago." Roxas felt his heart palpitate at the sound of the man's laugh. "Look, I didn't mean it like that. Put your eyes back into your sockets, man. I meant your talents. Like I mentioned before –"

"No."

"No?"

"Exactly. No." Roxas moved the phone from his ear, thumb ready to hit the red "End Call" button when a single sentence brought him to a standstill.

"$6,000.

The phone flew back up to his ear. "What?"

"Upfront. Legitimate cash. Can even pay taxes on the shit, declare it a gift or whatever. Make another easy 9,000 after the job and it'll keep rolling in like that after you join. Legitimate paper trails. No Feds knocking on your door. All you have to do is say yes, and a huge chunk of your mother's medical bills could be done with, just like that."

"I'm an officer of the –" Roxas started weakly, his hand as shaky as his resolve.

"You  _were_  an officer."

"I can't –"

"You  _can_. Only thing stopping you, is you. Debts paid off, no more rent to pay, the ability to do everything your other job would never let you do. Making a real difference. Letting go of a life that never really offered you anything other than the shittiest parts possible. No more being alone. All you gotta do is agree."

Roxas swallowed thickly, saliva going down like sandpaper. Common Sense screamed at him to simply hang up the phone, pretend that this conversation never happened. Common Sense wanted him to take something for his splitting headache and get down to finding some other job. Common Sense wanted him to ignore the part of him that agreed with everything that had come out of this stranger's mouth.

But Common Sense isn't nearly as common as the world would have one believe.

"Fine." The words came out as a strangled whisper, tangled in the pleas Common Sense was still desperately screaming.

Roxas received a small chuckle as his first reply. "Very well, then. We'll be in touch. Keep an eye on your account. Everything should be in place within twenty-four hours." The voice paused for a moment. "Oh and Roxas. Not to freak you out or anything but there's no going back now. Get used to being Number Thirteen."

"W-why Thirteen?" The blond asked. He was nearly panting now, oxygen suddenly seeming impossible to grasp. His chest felt unbelievably heavy as the reality of the situation settled in around him.

"Good-bye, Roxas and welcome to the Social Moderators."

Roxas dropped the phone as he heard the line click. His hands shaking too violently to support the small device any longer. His heart slamming against his chest to the point where he could swear it was audible. He pulled his knees into his chest as he fought for air; his physiological reactions betraying him for perhaps the third time that week. Slowly, he counted down the ten minutes until the edges of his vision cleared again. As his breathing became normal again, the young man crawled into his old over-stuffed recliner, still somewhat curled into a ball. He stared down at his phone, its dormant state contradicting the whirlwind of trouble it had contributed to. He chewed on his lip as his eyes moved from the phone to the box containing everything from his desk. His  _old_  desk. His  _old life_.

He stared at the boxes a while longer before he carefully climbed out of the chair, stacked one box on top of the other and picked them up. He walked them outside, eyes straight ahead. The nosy hens that occupied the apartment next to his, watching him carefully. He could hear the steady rumble of whispers start up, each one stinging more than the last.

_Sad, isn't it?_

_Poor thing._

_...Issues..._

_...Alone and unemployed._

He dropped the the boxes into the dumpster and spun on his heels, leveling the women with a healthy glare. He began to walk back into his apartment when the sight of a small white card at his feet caught his attention. He bent to pick it up, immediately recognizing it as his business card.

"Roxas McCartney, Detective, huh?" He muttered to himself. He started walking back to the apartment, stopping briefly in front of the gossiping women. "Here," He gruffly shoved the card at the women. "Here's something that's just as useless as you."

He ignored their indignant squawks as he locked himself back into his apartment.

Being polite to strangers didn't matter anymore. Neither did building rapport. He still had no idea what he'd exactly gotten himself into, but one thing the digitized voice had said to him still rang through his mind.

There was no going back.

* * *

_December 2012_

Twilight Town was not immune to the hustle and bustle that came along with the holidays. Two days before Christmas and you were hard pressed not to get trampled as people jumped in and out of taxis and cars lugging large boxes to and fro. The streets were beautifully lit with an assortment of colored lights and oversized Santa figurines. People dressed as elves lined up at every other store entrance, ringing bells, asking for donations for the less fortunate.

But Roxas didn't have time for any of it.

He rode through large clumps of people on his skateboard, scarf pulled up over his nose to fight the biting cold. He'd earned a healthy amount of incensed curses as he pushed through the throngs of anxious shoppers.

"Estimated time of arrival?" A male voice asked through the small ear-piece perched in his right ear.

The young man tugged the scarf down as he stopped at a crosswalk, scooping the skateboard up into his arms. "45 seconds. Building's in sight."

"Wig and contacts in place?"

"No need to ask stupid questions."

"Shouldn't there be a sir at the end of that?"

"Don't push it."

The voice chuckled lightly at the man's response. In the time since their first contact, the voice alteration had been cast aside. But Roxas still had no idea what the man on the other end of earpiece looked like. All of their contact had been strictly on Number Eight's (as the man identified himself) terms. Via phone, visual contact all on his end and Roxas still had no clue how the man did it. The money, as promised, was wired to Roxas' account within a day and the second phone call 48 hours after that. The second phone call informed the blond man just what exactly he had to do to earn his place. Take out the Owner and CEO of Cerberus Inc., Hades. Roxas knew plenty about this man. He was the last guy he'd investigated before he'd gotten fired. The man had millions of dollars unaccounted for. Not to mention he frequently supplied the drug cartels with illegal firearms. Those were just the crimes he could prove but Roxas knew the ruthless businessman had committed many more, including a few murders. But even with hard-hitting evidence, the guy got nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Benefits of a good lawyer. The memory made the young man grit his teeth. But now, with the job of infiltrating Cerberus Incorporated's annual Christmas party. After over a month of planning, Roxas could taste the poetic justice.

"All right," The voice broke the blond from his musings as he stepped into the building. "Get to the waiter stand in the Banquet Hall. What you need is on your cart. You're station 1. Hades' table."

"Got it." Roxas replied as he shed his coat, hat and scarf, making sure to keep on his gloves, revealing a waiter's outfit underneath.

"You fill out that outfit well, Number Thirteen. Ever think of going into the food service business? Although I must say that black wig and brown contacts do nothing for you."

Roxas rolled his eyes, incredibly use to the lecherous comments. "Go fuck yourself."

"Care to repeat that?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Go fuck yourself, sir."

"Ah, much better." Roxas gave an exasperated face. "Remember, you've got five minutes so in and out."

Roxas gave an affirmative grunt as he made his way down the hall, moving towards the sounds of music and chatter. He'd only just stepped through the door when a hand accosted him. He turned, arm poised to retaliate.

"You're late!" The man growled.

"Head caterer. Don't hit him." Number Eight informed him.

The caterer grabbed the young man by the arm. "I had three of my men call in sick, last minute. Damn flu taking people out left and right. I need you to take stations one and two. Your carts over by the table. Get a move on. We're already behind on glasses of champagne."

Roxas sneered at the man, ignored Axel's accompanying snicker and moved to grab his cart. Only, it wasn't there.

"It's not here." Roxas spoke up.

"What?" Axel and the caterer asked in unison.

"It's not  _here._ " Roxas repeated.

Roxas spun around and looked into the Hall. There were four other waiters, each pushing similar carts.

"Find that cart. You've got four minutes."

"Any particular way I'm supposed to be able to tell?" Roxas questioned under his breath, a bit of an edge in his voice.

"Bottom of the tablecloth has a heart insignia stitched into it."

The blond man pushed his way into the hall, ignoring the caterer's calls. His eyes quickly scanning the bottom of each cart. He spotted the heart insignia at the bottom of the cart being pushed by a tall brunette. Roxas maneuvered his way through the crowd to the young, tired looking woman.

"Excuse me," The woman stopped and looked up. "You look like you need a break. I'll take your cart."

The woman stared at him for a moment. "A-are you sure? I don't want us to get into any trouble."

"Yeah, I'll cover for you. No big deal. Can't have you passing out on the floor, right?"

The weary woman nodded, obviously too tired to argue. "Thanks. I just got here from my other job and... Anyway, I owe you." She gave Roxas a weak smile before trudging away.

"Look at you, Mr. Charming." That audible smirk was buzzing in his ear. The blond man gave an annoyed grunt at the voice before placing both hands on the handle of the waist-high cart. "Okay, Hades is in the Northwest corner. You've got three minutes."

Roxas easily spotted the tall, slender man. A small crowd gathered around him as he spoke, using lavish hand gestures. The sight of the man, made Roxas' skin crawl, but he managed to keep his face pleasant.

"Near." Roxas spoke softly as not to garner any attention from the crowd of people surrounding him.

"Good. Then, it's my turn. You know what to do."

Roxas' brow temporarily furrowed in confusion as he made his way through the crowd, parking his cart behind the CEO. Just then, the light instrumental version of Silent Night stopped, the speakers gave off a loud screech of feedback. The synchronized upward turning of heads as a digitized voice poured through them, was almost comical.

"Ladies and Gentleman, sorry to break up your little shindig but dear me, I think it's rather important." Roxas smirked slightly. Number Eight. The voice may have been altered but no amount of computer engineering could eliminate that asshole-centric tone. Roxas, quickly getting back to the task at hand, reached underneath the table cloth to the little shelf on the underside of the table. He pulled out what felt like a pen and examined it shortly. It looked very much like the insulin pens he remembered his mom taking. The needle was short and skinny. He wouldn't even feel it.

The blond man put one hand on the cart, the other grabbing the needle and injected its contents into the CEOs lower back quickly while h was preoccupied directing security. Roxas tuned into the Number Eight again, catching the tail end of the distraction.

"... How ironic that you're sitting here listening to a song about how Jesus came 2,000 years ago to change a world torn by injustice and inequity. Two millennia and some change later and people say he's coming again. How people have hope for the Second Coming when the first changed nothing, is beyond me." Roxas smirked at the words, he looked around at the faces in the room, some registering guilt, the others blank.

"Done?" The voice in his ear nearly made him jump in surprise. Roxas looked up at the speakers, confused. "It's a recording. Fourteen hacked the speaker system." Roxas blinked, eyebrows raised from curiosity. It was the first time Eight had mentioned any other members. "Looks like it's kicking in."

The blond looked over at Hades, noticing the man. His face was rapidly turning red and swelling. Hives covering his skin. He was grasping at his throat with wide eyes, obviously unable to breathe.

"Did you know that Hades is severely allergic to penicillin?" Number Eight asked while Roxas watched the businessman's face begin to turn blue. "Guess what you just gave him an epi-pen full of?" Roxas could hear the grin on the other man's face as he turned on his heels, the cries of the crowd to call 911 meaning little to the blond faux waiter. He scooped up his belongings and took off through the door he'd come in through.

"How do we know the ambulance isn't just going to save him?" Roxas asked as he took a turn town a near-deserted street.

"There was more than enough in that pen to take him out, trust me. Looks like we just saved his horribly abused wife and cut off about 20% of the cartel's armory. You're a lot better than I thought you'd be."

"Gee, thanks." Roxas huffed as he quickly pulled off the wig and removed his contacts before he dug out a book of matches and lit one, effectively setting the synthetic wig on fire before tossing it into a nearby dumpster.

"It's not like I thought you'd suck ass or anything. I knew you'd be good but damn..."

Roxas let out a wry laugh. "Sounds like someone needs a cigarette to go along with that afterglow."

Number Eight snorted in return. "M'not that creepy. Jeez. Anyway, might wanna speed it up there. Ambulance is on the way."

Roxas nodded, shrugged back into his coat and took off on his skateboard, winding his scarf back around his neck as he went.

"Oh, by the way. Check your phone when you get a chance. I'll be in touch."

"What?" Roxas muttered as he heard the connection drop. He pulled the earpiece out and shoved it into his coat pocket. When he was far enough away from the scene, he stopped and pulled out his phone.

New Picture Message: Number Unknown

Received at 10:02 pm

Roxas opened the message and nearly dropped the phone in surprise. Contained in the text was a picture of him injecting the pen full of penicillin into Hades. The wig and contacts were in place but anyone who really knew him would be more than capable of recognizing him. Underneath the image were the words:  _This is what I meant by "equal ground". Guess this means I'll be seeing you soon._

Roxas stared at the message. How on earth did he –

The blond man racked his brain. He'd scanned the area fully as soon as he walked in. There were no cameras as far as knew. He'd studied the layout of that Hall for weeks, there was no fucking way in the ninth dimension of hell he could have...

Roxas may have known before but now he was 100% sure. Despite what the news, politicians, law enforcement and gossip mill said...

The Social Moderators were no amateurs.

* * *

 

_April 2013_

"Hey, Sweetie, you done with that plate?" A raspy female voice stole Roxas' attention from the small circles he'd been drawing in the leftover cinnamon bun icing on his plate. He looked up from his seat at the bar. The people who'd been sitting at either side of him were long gone. He was nearly the last person in the diner. Apparently, he'd missed the dispersing of the lunch crowd.

"Uh, yeah." He handed the plate over to the waitress, his hand trembling slightly.

"Might wanna lay off the coffee there, you're looking a bit jittery." She advised with a motherly smile.

"Y-yeah." He answered as the woman scooped up his plate. She offered the man a soft smile before turning on her heels and walking away.

Roxas went back to his previous task of trying to get his heart to stop slamming against his ribcage like an unjustly jailed prisoner. He looked down at his watch. Ten minutes. He sighed and roughly scrubbed at his face, particularly rubbing at the evident dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't been able to sleep since Number Eight told him that he'd have to move to The Social Moderators headquarters. Being something of a freelancer for them, doing what they needed and heading home was one thing, this was something entirely different. He had to admit however, that it did make sense. The gossipy hens in his apartment complex had been getting suspicious. No job since October and yet his standard of living hadn't changed at all, if anything, it had slightly improved. Roxas could outmaneuver anyone in a car, his small frame made him especially adept at hiding in crowds and his quick tongue could charm most (when he wanted to, anyway). But no one could outrun a good rumor once it was sent into motion.

He ran a hand through his blond locks. He looked up at the fragile-looking old-fashioned TV placed high up on the wall.

"Breaking news?" He muttered to himself. "Excuse me," He called to another waitress manning the bar, she gave him an acknowledging look. "Would you mind turning that up, please?"

The waitress smiled and pulled an oversized remote from beside the register, turning up the volume.

_"...Davidson was pronounced dead at the hospital after many attempts to revive him. Witnesses at the scene have reported seeing the heart insignia used by the terrorist group known as The Social_ _Moderators, but law enforcement has yet to confirm..."_

Roxas felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew that café. And that meant, Number Eight, The Social Moderators' only other field worker, was there. He had been within an eight block radius. Roxas' breath caught in his throat.

"Terrorists?" The first waitress that had taken his plate was back. "That's what they're calling them now? I call them saints."

Roxas' eyebrows flew up in surprise. Before he could open his mouth to reply, another voice spoke up beside him.

"Saints, huh?"

Roxas inconspicuously clutched at his heart and looked to his left. A rather tall, skinny sandy-blond man with an indiscernible hairstyle had perched himself on the stool next to him. He screamed of hippie as far as Roxas was concerned.

"Yeah, you heard right. Dirty work but someone's gotta do it. Heaven knows the cops ain't." She scoffed, wiping her hands on her apron. The second waitress shook her head with an amused smile but stayed quiet. "Anyway, Love, what'll you be having today?"

"Just a coffee to go, Flora. Please and thank you." He answered with a wide grin. She smiled back and shuffled off towards the kitchen doors. The man reached around to his back pocket, leaning a bit too close, invading Roxas' personal "bubble". Before the blond man could saddle the invader with a healthy glare, he spoke.

"So how are you, Thirteen?" The man asked in a low voice, taking the smaller young man off-guard for the second time that afternoon. He offered Roxas a knowing grin and in turn, he stared at the other man momentarily, slack-jawed. This guy... was  _he_ …? No. Roxas knew Number Eight's voice inside and out by now. This guy's voice had a light, musical bounce to and wasn't nearly as deep.

"Number Nine." The man introduced himself, outstretching his hand. Roxas shook it hesitantly. "I'll be your ride today." Words escaping him, Roxas nodded. "You know, Eight said you were a bit of a smart ass but you seem pretty quiet to me." Number Nine mused with a smile.

"I-I'm the smart ass?!" Roxas sputtered. His nose wrinkled in annoyance.

"Ahh, he speaks!" Nine laughed, before Roxas could go off on the tangent that was already poised on his lips. "Don't worry, I knew Eight was full of it when he said it. I'm like, 99.9% sure he came out of the womb bullshitting people."

Roxas gave an amused chuckle as the waitress came back, coffee in hand.

"Here you are, Love." She handed him the drink. "Just like you like it."

Nine took it with another charming expression and handed the woman a ten dollar bill, clearly over-paying the woman. "Keep the change." He replied with a wink as he jumped from his stool. "Ready?" He asked as he looked over at Roxas. The young man blinked in return, a series of knots turning over in the pit of his stomach.

"Y-yeah."

"Oh, I didn't know you two were friends." Flora said, a surprised pleasant look on his face.

Nine nodded with a child-like enthusiasm before draping an arm over Roxas shoulder and pulling the man in close for an incredibly awkward half-hug. "Yep. Fast friends." He grinned widely.

Roxas forced a weak smile of his own.

For the umpteenth time, he was sincerely questioning just what exactly he'd gotten himself into.


End file.
